– What are these?

– Vicodin.

He looks at me. I hold out my hand.

– My face hurts.

– It is hurting again?

– It hurts all the time.

He grunts, taps two of the pills into his hand and drops them in my waiting palm. I keep my hand out. He shakes his head, drops two more in my hand. I toss the pills in my mouth and dry-swallow them.

He seals the bottle and puts it back in the glove box.

– David wants to speak to you.

I flex my fingers, curling and uncurling them.

– He’s in town?

– David is a man who likes to speak on the phone?

I shake my head.

– So where is he?

Branko jerks his thumb over his shoulder.

I look behind us at the reflective gold tower of the Mandalay Bay.

– Across the street?

– Yes.

He points at my hands.

– You can drive?

They’ve stopped shaking. Sometimes it’s like that, just swallowing the pills makes me feel better.

– Yeah.

I stick the key in the ignition, turn it, and the Olds pops to life. I pull us out of the parking space and Branko starts fiddling with the radio. I stop at the exit, waiting for a break in the traffic. Branko hits Lauryn Hill singing “Ex-Factor” and stops spinning the dial. He taps his finger on his knee, slightly out of time.

– I miss Hal Jackson.

His Serbian accent makes it sound like Hell Jycksin.

– What?

– Hal Jackson. Sunday mornings. WBLS. I miss him from New York.

I had a girl back in New York once. She liked Hal Jackson. Sunday mornings reading the paper, coffee and bagels.

I pull us onto The Strip. Branko is looking at me.

– Sunday Morning Classics?

She’s dead now. Now. As if it happened recently. It didn’t.